Tango One

by Stephen Leather

  Something vibrated on Donovan's hip. He wondered if it was the car, and he shifted position, but the vibration continued.

  "You weren't hot headed. You were cold. Calculating."

  Donovan reached into his pocket, figuring that it must be one of his mobile phones that was vibrating. Then he remembered that device that Knight had given him and he stiffened.

  "What's wrong?" asked Louise, looking at him sideways.

  "Cramp," lied Donovan. It was the RF detector. The car was bugged. He was talking about beating a man to within an inch of his life and the car was bloody well bugged. She was setting him up. Louise was leading him on, getting him to talk about it, getting him to confess. He made a play of rubbing his side. What the hell was he going to say? What had he said already? Had he given them enough evidence already?

  The Oasis track ended. The lights changed to green and Louise pulled away, but she kept looking across at him.

  "Are you all right? Do you want me to pull over?"

  Donovan shook his head. The next track started. Suddenly realisation dawned. He reached out and switched the tape off. The detector stopped vibrating immediately.

  "Not an Oasis fan, huh? Thought you would be, both being from Manchester."

  "How do you know that?" asked Donovan. He hadn't told Kris where he was from.

  "Oh, give me a break, Den," she laughed.

  "That's hardly an Oxbridge accent you've got there."

  Donovan pressed the start button again. The tape restarted. So did the vibration. He switched it off. The vibration stopped.

  "Make your mind up," she said.

  Donovan smiled and relaxed back in the bucket seat.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "I'm jumping at shadows at the moment."

  They arrived at Robbie's school. Robbie was waiting outside the gates, peering down the road. He didn't notice Donovan sitting in the passenger seat of the Audi.

  "Won't be long," said Donovan, climbing out of the sports car with Robbie's bag.

  Robbie frowned as he saw Donovan getting out of the Audi.

  "Who's that?" he said, looking through the windscreen.

  "A friend," said Donovan, holding out the sports bag.

  "A girlfriend?"

  "She's a friend and she's a girl, so that would make her a girlfriend, right? Now do you want this, or not?"

  Robbie took the bag.

  "A thank you would be nice," said Donovan.

  "Who is she?"

  "She's just a friend. Okay? I helped her and she came around to the house to say thank you. Then she said she'd give me a lift to drop your gear off. You know I hate driving in the city."

  "You're a terrible driver," Robbie mumbled.

  "I'm a great driver," Donovan protested.

  "You lose your temper too easily. You keep hitting the horn. And you don't use the mirrors enough."

  Donovan stood up.

  "I'll pick you up tonight, yeah? In the Range Rover."

  Robbie nodded.

  "Okay." He held up the bag.

  "Thanks for bringing this."

  "You give them hell. Score lots of goals."

  "I'm a defender, Dad."

  "Defenders can score. Don't let them put you in a box. You see an opportunity to go for the goal, you take it, right?"

  "It's a team game, Dad," laughed Robbie, and he ran off.

  Donovan went back to the car. He grunted as he climbed back into the passenger seat. He felt too old to be getting in and out of low-slung sports cars.

  "Everything okay?" asked Louise.

  "He thinks you're my new girlfriend."

  "As opposed to an old one?"

  "As opposed to his mother."

  "Ah," said Louise, putting the Audi into gear.

  "Starbucks okay?"

  "My favourite coffee." He stared silently out of the window.

  "Penny for them?" asked Louise, stopping to allow a pensioner drive her Toyota out of a side road.

  "Robbie says I'm a crap driver."

  "And are you?"

  "I don't think so, but what guy does, right?"

  "Quickest way to end a relationship," laughed Louise.

  "Tell a guy he's lousy in bed or that he's crap behind the wheel of car."

  "You in a relationship right now?" asked Donovan. Immediately the words left his mouth he regretted them. It was a soppy question.

  Louise didn't seem bothered by his probing. She shrugged.

  "Difficult to have any regular sort of relationship, doing what I do," she said.

  "Great way to meet guys, though," said Donovan.

  Louise raised her eyebrows and sighed.

  "Yeah, right. I'd really want to go out with the sort of guy who thinks shoving twenty-pound notes down a girl's g-string is a sensible way to spend an evening."

  "Beats sitting in front of the TV," said Donovan with a smile.

  "And would I want to go out with a guy who knows what I do for a living? What does that say about him?"

  "You mean, if a guy really cared for you, he wouldn't want you to do what you do?"

  "Exactly."

  "Maybe he'd think it better you have a career. My soon-to-be ex-wife never did a day's work in her life. She went from her father's house to mine. From one provider to another."

  "Soon-to-be ex-wife? You're getting divorced?"

  "Something more permanent, hopefully," said Donovan. Then he shook his head.

  "Joke."

  "Didn't sound like a joke," said Louise.

  "I'm still a bit raw," said Donovan.

  "You'll heal. Here we are." She parked the car at a meter and jumped out before Donovan could continue the conversation. She fed the meter and locked the car, then went into the coffee shop with Donovan. He reached for his wallet but she slapped his hand away.

  "No way. My treat, remember? Cappuccino okay?"

  Donovan got a table by the window while Louise fetched their coffees.

  She sat down opposite him and slid a foaming mug over to him. She clinked her mug against his.

  "Thanks. For what you did."

  "It was a pleasure."

  Louise sipped her cappuccino and then wiped her upper lip with a serviette.

  "I don't want you thinking I'm a victim, Den. A damsel in distress, maybe, but I'm not a victim. I fought back." She took off her sunglasses. Her left eye was still puffy and the redness had given away to dark blue bruising.

  Donovan smiled.

  "You should see the other guy," he said softly.

  "I kneed him in the nuts and he probably wouldn't have done this if he hadn't caught me by surprise. Doing what I do, I know how to handle men."

  "I'm sure you do," said Den, straight faced.

  She grinned and put her sunglasses back on.

  "You know what I mean. There's a psychology to it. A way of maintaining control."

  "I'm sure there is."

  "He caught me unawares. It won't happen again. I am really grateful, Den. You barely know me, but you were there when I needed someone. Friends, yeah?"

  Donovan nodded enthusiastically. He picked up his mug and clinked it against hers again.

  "Definitely," he said.

  "You've been a bad boy, haven't you?" said the woman. She was in her late twenties with shoulder-length red hair. She was wearing a black leather miniskirt, thigh-length black shiny plastic boots with four-inch stiletto heels and a black mask, the type that Catwoman used to wear in the old Batman TV show. She had a riding crop in her hands and she flexed it as she paced up and down across the blood-red carpet.

  "Yes, mistress," said David Hoyle. Hoyle was naked and tied at his wrists and ankles to two planks of wood that had been nailed together to form an X-shaped cross that stood in the middle of the room. On his head was a black leather hood with holes for his eyes and a zipper across his mouth.

  "And what happens to bad boys?" asked the woman, slowly running the crop from his left knee up to his groin.

  Hoyle's scrotum contrac
ted in a reflex action that was part fear and part sexual excitement. It was the mixture of emotions that he craved, that kept him returning to the basement flat in Earl's Court. The fear and the excitement, followed by a relief that was far more intense than he'd ever had with his wife in almost twenty years of marriage.

  "They have to be punished," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, muffled by the mask.

  She slowly unzipped the mouth hole.

  "That's right," she said, walking around behind him and dragging the crop along his skin.

  "How do you think you should be punished?" she asked.

  Hoyle swallowed. His mind was in a whirl. It wasn't often that his mistress allowed him to choose the method of punishment, and he had to choose carefully. The crop was too easy. The paddle barely hurt. The burning candle wax was painful, but it meant lying down and he had grown to enjoy being punished standing up. Or bending over. At the thought of bending over he felt himself grow hard and he knew what he wanted her to do to him.

  The door to the chamber was thrown open with a bang and Hoyle's erection died on the spot. Two men stood there. Men with hard faces and crew-cuts, big shoulders and tight smiles on their faces. One of them pointed a finger at the woman.

  "Out," he said.

  She nodded meekly. She put her crop on its hook on the wall, then walked out of the chamber, her hips swinging as if deliberately trying to tease Hoyle. The two men stood behind the lawyer. He tried to twist around to see what they were doing, but his mistress had done too good a job with his bonds. He started to breathe heavily and he could feel sweat beading all over his body. His insides went liquid and he knew that he was close to soiling himself. All the excitement had evaporated. All he felt now was fear.

  A third man appeared in the doorway. He wasn't quite as big as the two men who stood somewhere behind Hoyle, but he was over six feet tall. He was wearing a long grey overcoat and had his hands thrust deep into the pockets. There was something familiar about him, but Hoyle was sure he hadn't met him before he had a great memory for faces. Then it hit him. He looked like a younger version of Sacha Distel. When the man spoke, however, his accent was Spanish, not French.

  "Mr. Hoyle, I presume," he said.

  "Who are you?" asked Hoyle.

  "That doesn't really matter," said the man, 'considering the predicament you're in. What is more important to you is what do I want. And what I will do to you if you don't co-operate."

  The man walked into the chamber and closed the door. The only illumination came from a dozen candles around the room, and their flickering cast eerie shadows on the walls. He turned and looked at a shelf laden with dildos and vibrators of various shapes and sizes. He took his gloved right hand out of his pocket and picked up a huge black dildo. He looked at it with an amused smile on his lips, and then turned to Hoyle. He held up the dildo.

  "She puts this up your arse, does she?"

  Hoyle shook his head, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  "Bit big for you, is it?" said the man.

  "Working your way up to it? How would you like one of my guys to push this up you?"

  Hoyle shook his head, more emphatically this time.

  The man grinned and put the dildo back on the shelf. He looked around as if trying to find something to wipe his hand on.

  There was a pink towel on a radiator and he picked it up, wiped his gloves, and then tossed it on to a black leather-covered vaulting horse. The man gestured at the horse.

  "She ties you to that?" he asked.

  Hoyle nodded.

  "I've never seen the attraction in this," said the man.

  "Domination. I don't think I'm the least bit submissive. The idea of a woman hitting me .. ." The man faked a shudder.

  "There are so many better things a woman can do." He grinned.

  "I guess that's why they call it the English vice, isn't it?"

  He walked over to Hoyle and stood in front of him. Hoyle flinched as the man reached up and held the zipper over his mouth. He ran the zipper back and forth several times, an amused smile on his face, then zipped it closed.

  "You get given a get-out word, don't you? A word you can use when the pain gets too much. When you really want it to stop, right?"

  Hoyle nodded.

  "Just so you know, Mr. Hoyle, I won't be giving you such a word. The only way you're going to stop me is by doing what I want. Do you understand?"

  Hoyle nodded again. His penis had shrunk to nothing and sweat was dripping down his back.

  "Good," said the man. He stepped back and pointed up at a brass light fitting in the ceiling, below which was suspended an etched-glass bowl.

  "Did you know there was a camera up there? She records everything. For insurance. In case a client should die down here, she could prove that it was all consensual. She keeps the tapes. I've got all your sessions. I'm about half-way through them." The man grinned.

  "You're a naughty, naughty boy."

  Hoyle screamed as something hit him hard on the left thigh. Hoyle's eyes watered. One of the men was brandishing a cane.

  "Now, on the plus side, if you do what I want, I'll make sure that nobody else ever sees those tapes. Your wife. Or your partners. Or the tabloids. Or your mother." The man unzipped the mouth slot.

  "Say thank you, David."

  "Thank you," said Hoyle hoarsely.

  The man nodded and zipped the slot closed.

  "On the negative side, if you don't agree to do what I ask, my men will keep hurting you until you change your mind. They're experts at inflicting pain. Not the pretend sort that hookers like her dole out. Real pain. Crippling pain. Permanent pain."

  The cane slashed into Hoyle's other thigh and he cried out again, his screams muffled by the leather hood.

  "Where is Victoria Donovan?"

  Hoyle shook his head. The cane whipped through the air and pain seared across his stomach. He screamed. Tears streamed down his face and soaked into the leather.

  "Where is Victoria Donovan?" asked the man again.

  "I can't tell you," said Hoyle.

  The man frowned and unzipped the mouth slot.

  "You're mumbling, David," he said.

  "I can't tell you," said Hoyle, 'because I don't know. He won't tell me where he is."

  "He?"

  "Stewart. Stewart Sharkey. The man she's with."

  The cane swished again, and smacked into his stomach, a fraction of an inch lower than the previous time. Hoyle screamed and his whole body went into spasm for several seconds. Hoyle's mistress knew how to use the cane so that it didn't leave a mark, but Hoyle knew that the welts he was getting now would be on his body for weeks.

  "Before you get any ideas about that hooker calling the police, I've paid her to take a week's vacation," said the man.

  "And I've promised her that we'll have cleaned up by the time she gets back. Seems we've got mutual friends. Now, how do you get in touch with him?"

  "Phone."

  "There's no number in your office."

  "Stewart told me not to write it down."

  "UK number?"

  "A mobile."

  The man took out a mobile phone.

  "Right, here's what we're going to do, David."

  Stewart Sharkey's mobile phone trilled.

  "Who is it?" asked Vicky, standing at the entrance to the terrace, a glass of champagne in her hand.

  Sharkey forced himself to smile. He wanted to snap at her, to ask her how he was expected to know. He wasn't psychic, for God's sake. He picked up the phone and pressed the green button.

  "Stewart, it's me, David."

  "Yes, David." Hoyle sounded stressed.

  "Is there a problem?"

  "No, no problem," said Hoyle.

  "Everything's going ahead as planned. I've some forms for Victoria to sign, that's all. For the custody application."

  "Can't you sign them on her behalf?"

  Vicky frowned and mouthed, "Who is it?"

  "No can do, Stewart. Sor
ry. It has to be her."

  Sharkey put his hand over the bottom of the phone.

  "It's the lawyer. You've got to sign some papers." Vicky visibly relaxed and Sharkey realised that she thought the call might have been from her husband.

  "Stewart? Are you there?"

  "Relax, David. It's okay. What about faxed copies? Would that do?"

  "Has to be originals, I'm afraid. Is there any possibility of you both coming to the office in the next few days?"

  "Absolutely none," said Sharkey. He winked at Vicky and she took a quick sip of her champagne.

  "You'll have to have them couriered out here," he said.

  There was a pause as if Hoyle had taken the phone away from his mouth, then he coughed.

  "That's fine," he said.

  "Where shall I send them to?"

  "Have you got a pen?" asked Sharkey.

  Juan Rojas put away his mobile phone.

  "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked Hoyle.

  Hoyle had sagged against the wooden cross. The strength had gone from his legs and all his weight was on his wrists.

  "Please don't kill me," he sobbed.

  "Wouldn't that be the ultimate thrill for you?" asked Rojas.

  "Bit like Christ, dying on the cross."

  "I don't want to die," Hoyle moaned. Urine splattered on to the carpet and Rojas wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  "No one wants to die," said Rojas.

  "No one's ever begged me to kill them." A thoughtful look crossed his face.

  "Actually, that's not true. There was a man once, in Milan. After what we'd done to him, he really did want to die. Begged and begged." Rojas smiled.

  "I've no wish to kill you, David. None at all. I'm going to leave you here for a couple of days. One of my men will come in to give you water." He nodded at the sodden carpet.

  "Might even put a bucket under you. After forty-eight hours we'll let you loose. We'll still have the videos, so I'd expect you to hold your tongue about what's happened." Rojas walked up close to Hoyle, taking care not to stand in the damp patch of carpet.

  "Say thank you, David."

  "Thank you," said Hoyle weakly.

  Rojas grinned and slowly zipped up the mouth slot on the black leather mask.

  Donovan took the portable RF detector off before driving the Range Rover to Robbie's school. The traffic moved at a snail's pace, and yet again most of the vehicles on the road seemed to be mothers on the school run.